


The Usual Suspects

by theladybeatrice



Category: The Musketeers
Genre: Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 02:40:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2756522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladybeatrice/pseuds/theladybeatrice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos opened his door on Christmas morning to find a colorful package placed on the threshold.   Instead of continuing on his way to the garrison, he brought the package in to his table, and respectfully, slowly, undid the knot of string holding it together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Usual Suspects

Brown paper packages tied up with string  
These are a few of my favorite things  
\--Rodgers and Hammerstein

Porthos opened his door on Christmas morning to find a colorful package placed on the threshold. Instead of continuing on his way to the garrison, he brought the package in to his table, and respectfully, slowly, undid the knot of string holding it together. The string could be saved for any number of uses. Inside the bundle was a plethora of bandanas, in various weights and colors, all long enough to be plaited down the back of his neck. Each one carried a small and simple fleur de lis stitched into the corner. Porthos knew that stitching had to have been done by special request. These bandanas could not be just purchased in the marketplace. Someone knew just how important his allegiance to the Musketeers, and how significant the symbol, really was to him. 

The bandanas would serve him well for the months to come. Those he didn’t use himself would be carried in corner of his saddlebag, cushioning for precious cargo. They had been used by his fellow musketeers as bandages, slings, and to mop sweaty brows. Such a simple thing had saved many lives in the past. Porthos counted their worth more than gold. 

The bundle always arrived, and always without a note. There was no clue as to the identity of the sender. It had to have been someone who knew Porthos well, and he always suspected Aramis. His brother seemed to avail himself quite frequently of Porthos’ spare bits of cloth, particularly when in need of a binding for the wound of someone in his care. It would also be just like Aramis to add the frivolous, unnecessary bit of stitching in the corner. Porthos made sure to mention the importance of his gift in Aramis’ presence, but he suspected that a particular note of thanks would draw unwanted attention, especially since his brother never actually took responsibility for the gift.

On Aramis’ doorstep, the burlap wrapping gathered in string belied the beauty of the gift inside. Aramis’ delighted smile foretold what he suspected of the package. Bringing it in to unwrap in the morning light near his window, Aramis ran his hand reverently across the pebbled leather of the book cover. A glance at the title page told him it was a volume of Spanish poetry. Any volume of poetry was hard to come by, an expense not afforded by many. To find one in Spanish, the language of France’s longtime rival, in Paris, the capital city, must have been an effort. Though Aramis flipped through the page, he saw, as usual, no handwritten dedication, no note or claim as to the identity of his benefactor. Aramis always suspected Athos. Very few people in the capital knew of both his fluency in Spanish and his love of poetry. Both traits seemed, if not contradictory, then certainly superfluous for a King’s Musketeer. Only Athos would have the coin and the consideration to indulge this particular joy for Aramis. 

While the perfect gift for Athos might have been a bottle of the finest Bordeaux, that particular item never arrived on his doorstep. Instead, he would find a collection of long, narrow scarves, held together by a braid of string. Each scarf was a tasteful, earthy color. Some were lighter weight than others, and would be put aside for warmer weather. Others were heavy enough to prevent the winter chill from wrapping around his neck and running down his chest. No one ever claimed responsibility, neither in writing nor verbally, for the bequest. Athos always suspected Porthos. The scarves were simple and practical. It would be just like his brother to give something that provided Athos a sense of warmth and security each day, no matter what the weather. 

Unlike many others, d’Artagnan hadn’t really been looking forward to his first Christmas morning in Paris. Being without his father, and his compliment of aunts, uncles and cousins, he had almost been dreading the feeling of loneliness he was sure to encounter on the holiday. Therefore, he had willingly agreed to serve beside his newfound brothers this day so that the rest of the Musketeers could enjoy themselves. He nearly stumbled over the string-bound package on his doorstep. Puzzled, he carried it back inside his room to the table and cut the string with his main gauche. As he pulled apart the knitted fabric, he found gloves, mittens, scarves, and hats, all in a burnished brown color. The heavy yarn felt much sturdier than anything he had brought from Gascony or could have afforded to buy in Paris. Someone must have noticed his near-constant shivers in the recent cold snap, but there was nothing to identify the sender. d’Artagnan suspected Athos. His mentor had sighed with resignation multiple times upon seeing d’Artagnan try to warm himself in a variety of ways. He must have felt pity on the youngest musketeer, and it would be just like Athos to avoid taking credit for such an immense gift. 

The garrison was quiet Christmas morning; most men indulging in sleeping late, attending mass, or visiting far-flung family. The Inseparables were the only ones who climbed the stairs to Treville’s office. He preferred it this way. He trusted them to do their duty without complaint, and would reward them with time off in the coming days. He also trusted that if they noticed him yawning from lack of sleep, or saw the red-rimmed eyes blurry after a night circulating through the city, they would not comment on it. He also knew that any bits of cut string that had fallen to his floor would not gather undue attention. No one suspected him.


End file.
